


Title of Your Sex Tape

by smoothsailing



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sex Tape, barely any plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24673384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoothsailing/pseuds/smoothsailing
Summary: Grigor convinces Sascha to make a sex tape, basically.
Relationships: Grigor Dimitrov/Alexander Zverev
Kudos: 23





	Title of Your Sex Tape

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the fact that I'm extremely pissed at these two privileged white boys for pretending social distancing rules don't apply to them, I'd been sitting on this story for a few months now and decided to finish it rather than deleting it.

They’re in Grigor’s bedroom, and Grigor’s already set the lighting — opened his curtains to let the smattering of afternoon sun stream in distilled through his window to fan across the dark wood of his headboard and the white bed sheets, his duvet thrown onto the floor of his walk-in closet hours ago. He’s tested the angle himself, a couple days prior, when he’d first gotten the idea. He’d been away from Sascha for almost a complete fortnight — their schedules refusing to sync up, repelling despite their best attempts.

Grigor had returned to his apartment after press, switching on his TV in time to catch the end of Sascha’s match, watching the camera zoom in on Sascha like a magnet from across the court as Grigor settled into his massive couch. He’d sworn the camera had paused, for the briefest moment, right in on Sascha’s face, his creasing eyebrows, his split open mouth as he yelled out to his box, his arms and legs tensed and poised, waiting. Grigor’d just wondered, during the post-match interview with Sascha standing around in his sweaty shirt clinging at his chest, his flushed grinning face, his teeth flashing from the force of it, his warm voice echoing delight from the win — Grigor’d only wondered if Sascha had ever seen himself played back like that, if he’d ever really got it.

“It’ll be _great_ ,” Grigor says. He tries to emit as much assurance into his voice as he feels in the way his pulse is still steady, his breathing kept rhythmic and easy. It’s not like he isn’t excited, of course, can’t help the deep breath he’d had to take and the instant pressure at the zip of his jeans just from setting up the tripod he’d borrowed from Dani at the foot of his bed. The video camera itself is lost somewhere between his sheets, behind Sascha’s back — behind Sascha’s head and face where his teeth keep biting into his bottom lip, twisting, his gaze shifting from Grigor’s face to the tripod to the floor, sliding all over the place.

Grigor clears his throat, looking away from Sascha’s mouth and down to his own bare feet and toes curling in the carpet, the cuffs of his jeans at his ankles that seem uneven, one side slipping lower than the other. “Really great,” he says, glancing back up. “Promise.”

He finds that Sascha’s face has smoothed out a little, a grin peeking at the corners of Sascha’s lips, turning them upwards, his forehead and eyebrows relaxing, and Grigor has a swoop of relief that he’d thought to at least take Sascha out to breakfast first after picking him up from the airport in the early dawn — ducking as low as he’d dared behind his Lamborghini’s tinted windows, his hands thrumming with excess anticipation as he’d watched Sascha open the passenger car door with his duffel slung over his shoulder, fighting the urge to leap across the console and grab Sascha’s face with both of his hands the whole drive home.

“I’m gonna hold you to that, Dimitrov,” Sascha says as he steps forward, his feet shifting against the carpet, rustling.

Before Grigor can crack a smile back and tell Sascha that he hopes he will, he’s counting on it — before Sascha can reach him, he says, his face looking momentarily serious, his eyebrows creasing up again briefly, “Right, and we’ll delete it, after we watch it. Straight away?”

He’s still inching nearer, standing so close that Grigor can smell his aftershave, feel the hint of heat from his body already. Grigor’s fingers curl into his palms from the anticipation — Sascha’s hips, his waist, are so near that Grigor wouldn’t even have to extend his arm to pull him in, the lines of his abs visible under his thin cotton t-shirt. Grigor grasps the waistband of Sascha’s sweatpants with both of his hands, unable to stand it, and tugs Sascha forward until he’s stumbling into Grigor’s chest, his face opening up with his startled laugh, his eyebrows rising, his mouth falling apart around his white teeth.

“Yes,” Grigor says, emphatic, though it’s difficult to get the words out over his own laugh rising up. “I _promise_.”

“Alright, alright,” Sascha says, his mouth working around taming a smile. He looks down at Grigor through his eyelashes that appear lengthened and dark from the angle. His hands smooth down the slope of Grigor’s shoulders, dip down to his back, firm and solid, the outline of each of his fingers distinct even through the material of Grigor’s shirt.

Sascha wets his mouth, a slow drag of his tongue, and Grigor feels Sascha’s nails scratch a little at his back while Sascha says, “That’s already two promises you’ve made, no need to go around agreeing to things you can’t deliver on just to get me into bed.”

Then he tilts his face up, and Grigor’s bringing his hands up to cup Sascha’s jaw before he thinks of it, tilting his own face down to find Sascha’s warm mouth for a kiss.

Sascha only pulls back to say, “Where’d you leave it?” His voice has already dropped octaves, his mouth already blooming with colour, and Grigor resists reaching down to adjust himself and pop a button free to relieve some ounce of pressure that feels increasingly unbearable.

Instead, he says, “Not to worry,” murmuring as he leans closer for another kiss, one he can open his mouth to.

They kiss until Grigor can’t stop his hands from climbing up the back of Sascha’s t-shirt, sliding right up against his skin that’s growing warmer and warmer by the second, sweat beginning to contract in his pores, Sascha’s shirt starting to weigh heavy against the back of Grigor’s knuckles, his wrists where his bones are turning, tendons tightening from trying to grasp at Sascha’s shoulders — until Sascha’s got both of his hands gripping Grigor’s jaw, his fingers winding up in Grigor’s hair, Sascha's jaw opened wide enough to crack, like he’s trying to consume Grigor whole.

Grigor only remembers about the camera when Sascha groans into him, the sound vibrating between their broad chests where they’re pressed into one another, Grigor’s hands working at tugging Sascha’s shirt up — out of the way, off, and Sascha says against Grigor’s mouth, brushing the words there like he means to be tender, “Jesus, Grigor, I want you to fuck my mouth.”

Grigor’s chest tightens, his ribs shuttering with a sharp inhale, his hands clenching and unclenching in the material of Sascha’s shirt where he’s managed to screw it up all the way to Sascha’s armpits. “Fuck,” he says, stringing it out like a moan.

Sascha responds insistently — his hips pushing up into Grigor’s until they’re against each other, his leg slotting right between Grigor’s thighs. Grigor can feel him, hot and hard, unmistakable and close to Grigor’s own cock thickening up further in his jeans. He pulls away from Sascha’s mouth, the push of his tongue slick against his teeth, and grasps Sascha around his ribs to still him, saying, “Wait,” though his voice heaves like he doesn’t have enough breath.

He tries again, “Hang on,” he says, and squeezes his eyes shut in an effort to distract himself from Sascha’s hands sliding down his neck to his chest between them, palming his stomach, his fingers reaching to thumb at Grigor’s nipples through his shirt.

Sascha’s only moved away from Grigor’s mouth to kiss his cheek, underneath his ear, his jaw, no less distracting, and Sascha lingers there as he says, “What,” his voice deep and baiting, low. “You don’t want to fuck me?”

Grigor feels Sascha’s tongue press against his pulse in his throat, and then his teeth clench into a bite like he can't help himself, like it isn't enough. It makes Grigor’s hands spasm against Sascha’s ribs, pulling at him suddenly and so hard that it’s got to hurt, his nails digging in; Sascha’s thumbs are only more persistent at Grigor’s nipples and chest in response though — pressing back hard, scrunching the material of Grigor’s shirt up as he lets loose a noise like a moan.

Grigor clears his throat, attempting to collect himself, “Sasch, that’s not —”

But Sascha’s releasing the skin at Grigor’s neck to run his mouth up to Grigor’s jaw again, his voice rattling right into Grigor’s ear, “No? Don’t want your cock down my throat?” He hums a little, considering, disappointed almost, sucking at the space underneath where Grigor’s curls start, where his neck meets the edge of his jaw, his nose tucked into Grigor’s hair and skin.

Grigor tries not to let his eyes roll back and his hips shove forward into Sascha’s thighs, but it’s impossible when Sascha says into his ear again, more breathless than before, creaking between his vowels, “You want me to fuck you instead, hmm?”

Sascha slides his hands seamlessly from Grigor’s chest around his waist down to his ass, tucking into his back pockets and squeezing. A noise rasps out of Grigor’s throat before he can stop it, and Sascha laughs, pleased, a sound deep from his chest that it seems to simmer, hissing on its way out.

“Yeah,” Sascha says, his hands flexing against Grigor’s ass, scraping at the denim. “I’ve got you,” he says, angling his head to press the words to Grigor’s mouth, opening his own mouth up for a kiss.

He fucks his tongue into Grigor’s mouth, unforgiving, his chest hitching with a moan. He kisses Grigor again and again, Grigor’s own hands caught helpless at Sascha’s waist, spanning all the way to his hips, his mouth falling open as he groans into Sascha.

When Sascha pulls back he says, “Don’t worry, I’ll give you my cock later” and Grigor’s so distracted by the way Sascha’s mouth is completely flushed, red and swelling, watching it shape around his voice, pursing, that Grigor forgets what he’d been working so hard to remember, why they’d have to stop at all, and it makes too much sense to tug up at the hem of Sascha’s t-shirt, finally get it all the way off. 

Sascha surges up to kiss Grigor again as soon as his shirt's tossed away — landing with a quiet smack against the wall by the window adjacent to Grigor's bed. And Grigor collapses into him, rutting his hips forward for friction, moaning when he finds it against Sascha’s hard cock tenting his sweatpants obscenely. Sascha fists his hand in Grigor's hair, pulling like he means it, his bare bicep flexing, and Grigor gives, opening his mouth into their kiss until his jaw aches, unwilling to separate even at the scratch of Sascha’s stubble, even when his lungs begin to heat like they’re burning right up under his sternum, his nose stinging from trying to breathe so deeply. Sascha’s skin is incredibly warm underneath his hands, the muscles in his stomach taut, his shoulder blades broken apart from his hands knotting in Grigor’s hair, his hands slipping beneath Grigor’s shirt to scrape against his lower back like he can’t get a grip. Grigor grinds his hips into Sascha’s in a slow circle, and Sascha makes a noise right into Grigor’s mouth that Grigor tries to catch, tries to reel in like he can taste it with his tongue.

He only lets go of Sascha to reach behind his own head and help Sascha get his shirt off, but they can’t seem to pull apart long enough make it happen and Grigor’s suspended with his arms bent, his shirt fisted in both of his hands behind his head, Sascha’s hands pushing the material up so that it’s right below Grigor’s chin, holding onto the sides of Grigor’s face at the same time, his fingers tangled. The both of them pull at Grigor’s shirt so viciously that Grigor feels like he’s choking, his lungs locking up, seizing beneath his ribs, though Sascha won’t let up — his fingers firm at Grigor’s chin, his jaw and cheek, his mouth warm and slick, sound after sound releasing right into Grigor, his chest and stomach heated where they're flush against Grigor's, his hips rolling.

Grigor’s missed him more than he thought he would, so it takes until his vision starts to feel fuzzy — spinning, white sparks popping at the corners — for him to pull away, his chest feeling like it can’t expand any wider, it’s caving in. He presses his hot cheek to Sascha’s, sucking in air, his arms feeling tense and shaky behind his head.

Sascha’s breathing just as quickly, his chest drumming against Grigor’s at a pace almost as accelerated as Grigor’s pulse knocking around in his skull, echoing in his ears. Sascha kisses the side of his face, and then Sascha’s hands are gently tugging at Grigor’s shirt, freeing it from his numbed hands, trying to get it to slide over his head without jostling him too much.

He has to pull his head away from Sascha’s face and shoulder to get it all the way off, but his lungs have calmed enough by the time it hits the floor for him to lean in for Sascha’s mouth again, though Grigor’s own mouth feels hot and raw, his throat dry, his jaw aching. Sascha doesn’t look like he’s much better off — his mouth has grown so red and swollen that Grigor can’t stand the sight of it alone.

Sascha takes advantage of Grigor’s naked stomach and chest like he hadn’t had his hands beneath Grigor’s shirt before, like he hadn’t been sliding his thumbs at the bones of his hips, rubbing his palms at Grigor’s hipbone where his feather tattoo rests, the small of his back that’s becoming warm and sweaty. Sascha doesn’t hesitate to step into Grigor until they’re pressed against each other once more either, and Grigor pulls him closer by his arms, feeling Sascha’s biceps expanding, firm and flexed, in his grip. He tightens his hands like he’s trying to get an imprint, memorize the feel, and tries not to groan from it, from Sascha’s mouth open against his throat when Grigor says, “Come on,” pushing a little, using his leverage to get Sascha to walk towards the bed.

They shuffle backwards, and though they aren’t very far, it takes ages. Sascha makes it difficult with the way he refuses to let go of Grigor’s waist, tracing the trail of hair leading into Grigor’s jeans, thumbing at the button, his mouth pressing into Grigor’s, urgent like he can’t bear to be away from it. Grigor stumbles more than once, but Sascha catches him easily, shifting his grasp around Grigor’s waist so that Grigor never really trips and falls — only leans in more fully to Sascha’s body and mouth, falling into him instead, and it makes Grigor groan, helpless and caught.

When they reach the bed, Sascha switches them around by Grigor’s shoulders and then shoves Grigor down. Grigor flops onto the bed on his back, his breath swooshing out of his chest, his chain smacking into his collarbones, his knees hanging over the end of the bed, his feet on the floor. He looks up at Sascha, who’s grinning and reaching to spread Grigor’s knees apart, fitting in between them.

Grigor pulls at Sascha’s shoulders, urging him down and closer, and Sascha goes willingly, his knees bumping into the bed between Grigor’s, his back arching as he brackets his hands around Grigor’s shoulders, lean nearer to give him a kiss.

It doesn’t last long before Sascha’s bending back up a bit, still arched low enough for another kiss, but with enough space between them for his hands to grasp at Grigor’s sides, right above his jeans and push up like he’s trying to lift Grigor.

Sascha pulls away from their kiss to say, “Come on, budge up,” and Grigor grins at him while he complies, propping himself up with his hands to scramble further up on the bed, watching Sascha’s own red swollen mouth grin back at him, his bare flushed chest, his sweatpants lower on his hips than they’d been before, than Grigor had remembered — so low that they’re stretching out right over the huge bulge of Sascha’s stiff cock and Grigor can clearly see that Sascha isn’t wearing any underwear underneath, it’s all a wash of lean soft tanned skin.

It startles Grigor when he figures he’s far enough back on the bed and starts to let his weight go only to knock his hand into something hard and solid, like plastic or glass, his knuckles skimming over the smooth surface. He frowns, his face twisting with confusion at the contact and cranes his head over his shoulder to cheek. He’s surprised to see the camera, the extended attached lens underneath a corner of the sheets, and he’s quick to reach for Sascha’s hand that’s sliding down flat against Grigor’s stomach, heated and firm, headed to his zipper.

Grigor says, “Hey — hang on, Sascha,” making a noise in his throat and turning his head around to face Sascha again when Sascha does no such thing, rubbing his palm up the length of Grigor’s cock in his jeans instead, looking down at Grigor’s naked torso and wetting his mouth.

Grigor makes another grab for Sascha’s wrist, sucking in a breath and trying to sound serious, “We forgot about — the thing, Sascha.”

When Sascha doesn’t stop, humming along like he’s listening but bending to mouth across Grigor’s chest, his stubble scraping Grigor’s skin, his hair tickling underneath Grigor’s chin, his voice rumbling against him, Grigor says more urgently, “The _thing_ , Sascha, the thing, the whole point of — would you give it a rest,” but he’s worried that his hips rocking up into Sascha’s open palm when he finally undoes the first button of Grigor’s jeans might send the wrong message.

Sascha’s biting over the tattoo at Grigor’s hipbone as he hums again in affirmation, and Grigor feels it vibrate across his body, but it’s obvious Sascha hasn’t heard at all because the stupid moron only starts to slide Grigor’s zipper down, saying low and uneven into Grigor’s navel, “Don’t worry, babe.”

He kisses his way down Grigor’s pants, tugging the zip with more force so that it jars Grigor’s hips forwards, towards him. “Just want to taste you.”

He props himself up on his elbows, watching Sascha’s mouth trace along the waistband of his boxers, and says, “Fuck,” the word sliding out of his throat. He reaches blindly for the camera behind him with one hand, groping to get a hold of the side of it in a firm grip and tug it forward.

Sascha glances up at him, disturbed by the movement and he looks caught — his mouth slack and open, his eyes so blue, his hair a mess, especially where it’s longer on top — his fingers folded into the band of Grigor’s jeans, his arms flexed and poised like he’d been about to pull them down in one swift motion. He grins a little when he sees Grigor struggling to balance his hold on the camera, trying to brace himself still with one arm, reaching across his middle to fiddle with the buttons distractedly.

“Oh, yeah,” Sascha says, sounding pleased. “Forgot about that.”

Grigor levels him with a look, knocks his knee into Sascha’s shoulder, trying not to smile, trying to keep a grip on the disappointed set of his mouth, his frowning furrowed eyebrows, but he can’t contain it when Sascha retaliates by grabbing his ankle loosely and biting it, making Grigor kick his leg again, a laugh erupting from his chest. He squirms free, though Sascha only lets Grigor go, it seems, to grab him by the hips again, to get a much surer grip on his jeans than he’d had on his ankle, and tug them down hard, standing up to take them off.

“Have you figured that out yet?” Sascha says as he struggles to free Grigor’s jeans from his calves. He gives a final pull and stumbles back a little, holding the jeans up in victory before tossing them carelessly over his shoulder to land wherever their shirts must’ve wound up, and Grigor offers him a smile, dimpling at him, taking a moment to smooth his hair back from his forehead.

“I’m working on it,” he says, finally looking away from Sascha’s face and down to the camera again.

Sascha makes an unconvinced noise and dips back down to bite at the waistband of Grigor’s underwear, pulling the material away with his teeth, kneeling almost completely on the mattress between Grigor’s long spread legs, palming at the tent in his own sweatpants like he’s impatient.

It seems Grigor finds the record button just in time, slipping his hand into the leather strap to secure the camera — like Sascha couldn’t have waited any longer with the way that he glances back up at Grigor through his eyelashes, at the camera that Grigor’s just managed to angle down towards Sascha’s head. His eyes are open wide, his white teeth still clenched around the fabric of Grigor’s boxers as he drags them downwards slowly, nosing at Grigor’s cock as he goes.

Grigor bites his lip at the noise that comes up — sudden and sharp — especially with the way Sascha looks through the flip screen, his skin seeming more tan than before, sitting in sharper contrast to Grigor’s dark briefs, to Sascha’s flushed mouth, his eyes, his huge hands helping slide Grigor’s boxers down his open thighs and down below his knees, squeezing around his shins as Grigor kicks them all the way off.

On the screen, Grigor’s cock springing free, slapping up against his stomach looks even larger, Sascha’s lips even fuller as they trace up his shaft. His tongue strokes at the head, his hands slide back up Grigor’s thighs to touch his hips and waist — and it seems even louder in the quiet of the room, between the soft humming from the camera and their breathing when Sascha moans at the sensation.

“Fuck,” Grigor says again.

Sascha’s eyes flick up to him, holding contact before flickering over to the camera lens right as he dips to take the head of Grigor’s cock into his mouth, sucking, beginning to hollow out his cheeks.

Grigor groans and his grip on the camera suddenly feels slippery, like it could slide right out of his hand, the camera strap hot and clammy against him, his skin overcome with heat — and Sascha’s warm hand wrapping around the base of his cock, his jaw opening up wider, his tongue rubbing along the underside of Grigor’s cock does nothing to help, only makes Grigor’s chest feel tight and breathless, difficult to get a grip on a full inhale, his head tilting back with a moan, his hand tipping sideways and skewing the camera angle up.

Sascha’s free hand spreads Grigor’s thighs further apart, pushing right at the jut of his muscles where his jeans have left a red imprint from the seam. Sascha pulls off with a sloppy slick noise.

Grigor struggles to quickly straighten his wrist and frame the camera properly as he watches Sascha wet his already damp mouth and stroke Grigor, sliding his thumb across the slit of Grigor’s cock, spreading Grigor’s precum and his spit down the length; it looks terribly good on the camera when Grigor manages to glance over to the screen: Sascha’s big hand around his bigger hard cock, Sascha’s mouth more wrecked than before, his eyelids lowered, his arm flexing so that his bicep bulges, Grigor’s own stomach quivering, his feather tattoo in plain sight.

“Need a hand?” Sascha says, his mouth cracking around a grin, jerking his chin up towards the camera, and Grigor huffs a laugh back at him, more breathless than anything, tightening his hand around the camera reflexively to keep it from feeling so slippery again. 

He clears his throat, opening his knees up further and pushing up into Sascha’s hand. Grigor’s voice ends up rasping all over the place, the words punching together disjointedly as he says, “I’ve got it; you’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

Sascha hums, considering, and then opens his mouth up to lap at the beads of precum dripping from Grigor’s cock. “I suppose,” he says, swallowing.

He bows and takes Grigor into his mouth fully, working into a rhythm with his hand, bobbing his head, groaning around Grigor, loud and eager even with Grigor’s cock muffling the sound. Grigor can’t help but echo him — Sascha’s mouth feeling hot and wet, tight with suction around him, his skin feeling slicker with sweat, the camera growing overheated in his hand, the noises of it humming combined with Sascha’s mouth and their breathing feeling like an overload in his ears, making white static expand and buzz in his head.

Grigor thrusts up without meaning to, clenching his hand around the camera and his free one in the bed sheet, twisting it between his knuckles, clenching his jaw to keep from thrusting up again, to keep from throwing the camera aside and threading his fingers through Sascha’s hair, tugging on it, cupping the back of his head, cupping his open jaw full of Grigor’s cock, pressing Sascha down and close, closer.

Sascha makes a noise around him, his eyes opening suddenly and settling on Grigor, his face flushing anew from Grigor’s thrust. He pulls off again, and Grigor says, “Sorry,” though he can’t quite manage to sound very apologetic, distracted by Sascha jerking him fast and tight in his mouth’s absence, and Sascha’s chest expanding just as quickly as Grigor feels his own.

“You’ve never had to be sorry for that before,” Sascha says, his voice hoarse and breathy, his eyebrow quirking up, his lips sliding around a grin. Then he lowers his mouth again to guide Grigor back in, moaning as he sinks down, opening and relaxing his throat pointedly to take Grigor deeper than before.

Grigor makes a noise that splits off into a gasp, hitching in his sternum. “Christ, Sascha,” he says, his hand feeling like it weighs ten thousand tons with the camera in it, heavy even though Sascha looks so good through the screen — his mouth stretched all the way around Grigor like that, his throat working, his eyelashes sweeping against his cheeks, his nose close to the brush of hair at the base of Grigor’s cock.

Sascha tugs at Grigor’s thighs and hips, tightening his hands, his nails scraping against Grigor’s skin, pulling Grigor in an imitation of a thrust until Grigor groans and tries to keep his arm steady while he rocks his hips up with purpose, slow and deliberate, fucking into Sascha’s mouth and throat over and over.

Sascha’s incredibly loud around him, and Grigor doesn’t know how long he’s going to last with the tight heat of Sascha’s throat, with the way Sascha’s eyes are watering and rolling up in his head like he’s the one having his cock sucked into next week, his breaths coming in shorter and shorter, harsh and crude through his nose. Grigor’s whole body feels so hot, drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead and neck, his open thighs shaky and wobbly, the base of his spine lit up.

He says, gasping, “Sascha,” and Sascha seems to understand, his eyelashes sweeping open, looking up at Grigor around his cock, his pupils blown apart, his face red and sweaty, his hair curling against his forehead.

He drags his mouth up Grigor, pulling away, sucking, and Grigor tries not to thrust up into it this time, though it takes a lot of effort, makes him feel twice as winded, his hand and arm trembling from the exertion of holding the camera up and not falling slack. Sascha doesn’t replace his hand with his mouth, but he does take a moment to suck at the head of Grigor’s cock, gathering his cum into his mouth.

When he pulls off, Grigor groans and says, “Let me see,” bending to sit up and touch Sascha’s jaw with his hand, wanting to run his thumb across Sascha’s obscenely swollen bottom lip, his damp reddened chin. He tilts the camera forward, bringing it tighter into his chest to get a better shot of Sascha, focus on his face and bare heaving chest. “I want to see,” he says again.

Sascha complies, looking right into the lens and Grigor’s face as he opens his mouth and slides his tongue out to display Grigor’s cum pooled on it. Grigor has to bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut so that he doesn’t fuck his cock back down Sascha’s throat at the sight.

When he opens his eyes, Sascha’s closed his mouth but hasn’t swallowed, and he leans up to kiss Grigor, reaching with a hot hand for the back of his neck, his mouth remarkably warm and wet, smelling and tasting like musk — feeling so good that Grigor doesn’t even notice how quickly Sascha presses his tongue into Grigor’s mouth until he feels his own slick cum against his tongue. He moans as he swallows, the sound breaking up, his mouth falling slack.

Sascha kisses him again, slow and thorough, before Grigor feels Sascha’s hand join his around the camera, wrapping his long fingers around Grigor’s and pushing their joint hands together towards Grigor’s chest so that the camera, warmed and sweaty, knocks into his skin, clinks noisily against his chain.

Sascha bites at Grigor’s bottom lip as he pulls away, saying, “Go on, set it up properly, won’t you?” His gaze scans up and then down Grigor’s face like he's surveying, taking him in, his lips hinting at a grin.

Grigor gets his lungs to quit burning up long enough for him to say, “Yeah, alright,” and give Sascha’s jaw a lingering kiss before he moves away to slide off the bed, onto his feet, and attach the camera to the tripod, stumbling a bit, his legs feeling loose and quivering, his cock wet from Sascha’s mouth, still attempting to catch his breath.

When he’s managed to get the camera to click into place, he bends and looks through it to double check the angle, make sure he’s done a proper job. He’s presented with the image of Sascha on his back on the bed framed sideways through the lens, his head and feet flat against the sheets, his hips lifted and his hands beginning to slide his sweatpants all the way down, his arms flexing. The sun’s scattering over the lines of his chest, the slope of his nose and chin, his crooked elbows, his raised knees, and Grigor has to bite his lip to muffle a noise, suddenly feeling as though he's breathing just as heavily as he was a few moments ago when Sascha had his red wet mouth around Grigor’s cock.

Grigor sees Sascha tilt his head to the side to look over at Grigor and the camera, pausing with his sweatpants mid-thigh, his muscles tensed and flexed, his cock still caught and bulging hugely in the fabric though the groomed thatch at the base is nearly visible, his knees spread apart wider than before, his chest collapsed with an exhale. His mouth looks swollen while he says, “See something you like?” His lips part around a grin, his teeth flashing in the sunlight, his eyebrows raising.

Grigor’s unable to convince himself to step away from the camera. He only looks up from it to shoot Sascha an absent grin back, distracted by glancing down from Sascha’s face to his chest, his stomach, his thighs — much brighter, much more real than he’d appeared through the lens’ filter. He says, “Might if you make it worth my while. Go on, show us what you’ve got,” and then has to grip himself at the base of his cock when Sascha makes a considering face, as if he’s weighing his options, before he lifts his hips from the bed again and shoves his sweatpants the rest of the way off, his hard cock springing up against his belly, his long tan legs coming free.

Sascha straightens up after he’s tossed his sweatpants away, sat so that his legs hang over the side of the bed, framed directly in front of the camera and Grigor. He leans backwards on one palm pressed flat to the sheets, tilts his head back at an angle almost in defiance, challenging, and Grigor can see the underside of his unshaven jaw, see his eyes and eyelashes even though they’re lowered.

Sascha wets his mouth slowly and Grigor tightens his hand around his own cock, watching entranced as Sascha slides his free hand up his neck, his long fingers spread out, touching gently at his jaw, sliding down his chest, circling his nipples, dipping down to run across his abs and then his thighs before he takes his cock, thick and hard, in hand, stroking upwards. He makes a noise at the contact, his eyelashes fluttering, his hips jerking forward into it, and then picks up the pace, his fist moving more quickly around his prick, settling back onto his palm so that he can push his hips up into it. He groans and spreads his thighs apart over the edge of the bed; the white sheets twist underneath his legs.

Grigor doesn't realize how heavily he's breathing, tightening his hand unconsciously around himself, until he makes a noise and it comes out loudly, much more-so than he’d thought it would, echoing in the room sharply above the sounds of Sascha’s hand slick on his cock, Sascha moaning, the camera humming close to Grigor’s ears.

Sascha’s eyes flicker up to Grigor and focus on his face. He grinds up into his fist slowly, dragging his fingers up his cock, his hips rolling, a noise scraping out of his throat, raspy and hoarse, and then he widens the spread of his thighs even more, leaning back further until he’s resting on his elbow. It gives Grigor and the camera a clear view of the insides of Sascha’s thighs, his cock, big and hard against his stomach, his hand wrapped around himself, stroking languidly, his balls, his hole.

Sascha says, “You’re not going to make me do all the work, are you?” His hand slides down from his cock. His long fingers touch at the inside of his thigh before slipping below his balls to rub dry over his hole. He pushes his hips into it, just a little.

Grigor drags in a deep breath and his lungs rattle around in his chest like loose change. He scrubs his hand through his hair, straightening up to look over the camera at Sascha biting his lip, his fingers still circling his rim. He says, “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

And he can't seem to get to the bed fast enough, tripping over his feet in his haste, unable to look away from Sascha's hands, his slack mouth, the flush on his chest and neck, his arm loosely flexed at he touches himself.

He kisses Sascha as soon as he reaches him, bending and pulling him up and in by a firm grip on his short hair at back of his head, dragging him off his elbow and into Grigor’s body instead, their bare chests coming into contact from how Grigor’s arched towards him. Sascha makes a noise and cups Grigor’s jaw with his free hand, his fingers smoothing down the hard line of bone, his skin, before they dig in, tugging Grigor further into him as he opens his mouth up into their kiss.

Sascha’s mouth feels hot against Grigor, his skin warm under Grigor’s hands, against Grigor’s chest and shoulders and arms, and it boils up white, hot, low in his stomach, igniting along his spine, climbing. Grigor opens his mouth more desperately, touching Sascha’s tongue with his, pulling him in urgently by his face. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he gets any more heated, doesn’t know how he’s going to stand it.

Sascha makes a noise into him, only moaning from the rough pull of Grigor’s hand in his hair, his jaw that’s got to be sore opening further to take what Grigor’s giving him. Grigor leans into Sascha until he’s falling back against the sheets, spreading his legs so that Grigor can fit between them. He follows Sascha down until his elbows are on either side of Sascha’s shoulders, pressed to him completely, heavy and unrelenting — their chests and stomachs, their hips, their cocks slick against one another, their thighs interlocked. Sascha groans into Grigor’s mouth at the contact, rolling his hips up into Grigor’s and Grigor mirrors him, moaning in return from feeling Sascha so hot and huge, insistent at his hip.

Grigor raises his knees and brackets Sascha’s thighs between them, sliding one leg behind Sascha's knee, hooking his ankle, and pulling until Sascha's thrusting against him lower — until Sascha’s cock’s sliding down the crack of Grigor's ass.

Grigor moans, no longer able to kiss Sascha, breaking away to pant next to Sascha’s lips, leave his mouth open against Sascha’s cheek, his chin, his throat.

"Yeah," Sascha says, gasping, the word cracking apart. "Yeah, like that," he says as Grigor slides more firmly against him and swears into his shoulder.

It's a difficult, trying struggle to pull away, but Grigor manages to peel back, their skin sticking together briefly from their sweat, pushing his hair off his forehead where it's growing matted, his pulse hammering again as his feet hit the floor once more and he fumbles at the side table next to the bedframe, where he'd left lube and a strip of condoms out. He tears one off his with teeth as he uncaps the bottle to get his fingers slick, and hears the sheets rustling. He glances over his shoulder to find Sascha further back on the bed, his legs no longer hanging off the end but stretched flat all the way out.

He tosses the condom down, aiming for the bed and smacking Sascha in the shoulder with it instead. Sascha looks back at him at the contact, grinning, his teeth showing, a small dimple high up on his cheek appearing, but it seems like it's hard for him to keep track of the smile, his concentration slipping and his swollen red mouth willing to fall open instead, his face flushed. He's stroking himself again in Grigor's absence and Grigor makes an admonishing noise at him while he smears the lube between his fingers to warm it up.

He arranges himself in front of Sascha again, at the foot of the bed, with his back to the camera, and says, "That eager, are we? Can't wait for me to get you wet, can you?"

Sascha only moans, tilting his head back, and thrusts up wantonly into his own open palm. "If you take any longer going about it, I'm going to finish before you've gotten started," he says, his voice remarkably unsteady, too low to even out.

Grigor doesn't hesitate to press his fingers against Sascha, tracing his own rim so that he turns his face into the sheets, biting his lip as Sascha finally pushes in. Grigor feels tight around Sascha’s finger immediately, and Grigor pushes his hips up into it, urging Sascha on further, widening his legs, his knees bent up on the bed.

It's not long until Sascha's stretching Grigor out on two fingers, his noise growing louder — drawn out, his face growing more flushed, especially when Sascha brushes against his prostate. Sascha wishes like mad that he was holding the camera in his hand, not wanting to miss Grigor’s face like this — even if the way he's kneeling beside Grigor on the bed assures there'll at least be a nice, clear shot of Sascha sliding a third slick finger into his ass, Grigor's cock jumping, dripping precum onto his own stomach, his hand clenching at Sascha's shoulder and hair. It'll surely pick up the desperate noise Grigor makes, the grind of his hips as he tries to take Sascha's fingers deeper.

Grigor looks too good for Sascha to not give in a little, and he fucks Grigor with his fingers until his palm's rutting into his balls and Grigor can't seem to catch his breath at all, his chest hitching, keening, his grip tight in Sascha's hair, scraping hard at his shoulder. It's nothing compared to the way that Grigor feels as Sascha stretches his fingers apart inside of him, unbearably hot and tight. Sascha wonders if he could just cum from this too, like Grigor seems ready to, and he picks up the pace, thrusts into Grigor more frantically, harder, until all he can hear is the sound of their skin slapping together, wondering if he will.

Grigor’s riding Sascha’s fingers, one of his hands shaking as he slides it down his face, his voice shaking when he begs, "Sasch, please."

Sascha pushes his fingers into Grigor as deep as he can before he slides them all the way out, and Grigor makes a breathless noise, his legs folding into one another to cope with the loss.

Sascha murmurs, “Like this, yeah?” and maneuvers Grigor until he’s sideways on the bed, arranging the both of them so that Grigor’s whole body is visible for the camera, so that there’ll be a view of his face and hair, the sides of his shoulders, his long legs bent up around Sascha.

He's barely managed to properly roll the condom on and slick himself up, kneeling between Grigor’s open legs, before Grigor's impatient and insistent, tugging him in with his calves around the backs of Sascha's thighs, pushing his hips up, his hands and arms looped around Sascha's neck, pulling him closer, saying, "Get on with it already," sounding like he’s nearly growling.

Sascha kisses Grigor to shush him, and then grips him suddenly by his thighs, spreading them apart as far as possible so that he gasps against Sascha’s mouth. He hooks one of Grigor’s legs over his shoulder as he lines his cock up and slides in.

Grigor moans, loud and unabashed, and he's so fucking tight around him that Sascha has to still himself, his lungs choking beneath his sternum, his necklaces suspended above Grigor’s collarbones. He slows as he rolls his hips all the way in until he’s flush against Grigor’s ass and thighs so that he doesn't cum from the immediate tight heat alone.

He’s not sure if he’s giving Grigor a moment to adjust or himself a moment to breathe as he holds himself up on one arm braced on the bed beside Grigor’s shoulder, his knee nearly touching his own chest from the way his ankle’s tucked behind Sascha’s head, his other leg held open and apart around Sascha’s waist. Sascha’s pulse is absolutely thudding in his ears, and he knows Grigor’s is too — his mouth’s caught open, his eyebrows drawn together, his hands tangled up in Sascha’s hair, flexing around his necklaces.

Grigor tugs Sascha, demanding, angling his hips up, tilting his head back against the sheets, arching his neck when he doesn’t move right away, and Sascha takes the hint, pulling back before thrusting in again and again.

Grigor’s leg falls into the bend of Sascha’s elbow, and he leaves his other leg open around Sascha’s hips, his heel pressing in above Sascha’s ass. Sascha straightens up a little so that he has more leverage — can push in harder, deeper until he’s fucking Grigor properly like he’s been asking for, his hands twisting in his own hair like he can’t stand it, sound after sound releasing from Grigor’s open mouth, loud in the room above the hiss of the sheets, above their skin smacking together, above Sascha’s own helpless moans and his necklaces clinking.

Sascha can’t stop touching, his fingers skimming over Grigor’s thighs, the muscles contracting in his stomach, his thrumming chest. Grigor keeps thrusting down to meet Sascha when he thrusts in, and it makes Sascha want to never have to stop, feeling like he could fuck Grigor endlessly, makes him pray that he can watch this again and again, Grigor’s legs open as wide as he can handle, his back arched, his hair curling against his forehead, his face so broken apart — makes him drive harder into Grigor thinking about seeing this played back and remembering acutely how tight and hot Grigor is around him now.

He bends closer, pressing Grigor’s leg down to his chest again, and reaches for Grigor’s mouth, kissing him sloppily through his groans, their breaths exchanging quick, humid and dense between them. He slides his mouth down Grigor’s throat and rests his forehead against Grigor’s sweaty shoulder as he fucks into him, slower and deliberate. Grigor’s hands rub through Sascha’s curls and then down his shoulders and back, scraping, when they’re within reach. The vibration of his moans is right up against Sascha’s ears — especially loud when Grigor says, “I’m so close,” his voice torn apart. “Sasch,” he says, like a plea.

Sascha bites his nipple and then kisses up to his mouth, sliding all the way out, all the way in. “Yeah,” Sascha promises. He kisses Grigor’s mouth again, reaching with his hand to touch Grigor’s jaw, the hair behind his ear. “You gonna cum for me?” he says when he pulls away, still close enough to Grigor’s face that their noses are nearly touching, looking into his darkened eyes.

Grigor makes a noise as Sascha rolls his hips, grinding, flush against Grigor’s ass, his chest rising with a breath into Sascha’s, looking right back into Sascha’s face, his mouth unbearably red and swollen. He says, “Yeah,” affirming, his voice scratchy. “Gonna cum from your cock.”

Sascha can’t take it so he groans, biting Grigor’s mouth, and then straightens up to look down at Grigor before he pulls all the way out, leaning back onto his haunches, his heels digging into the underside of his ass, his cock slapping up impossibly hard and slick into his stomach. Grigor makes a noise at the loss, his eyebrows twisting, breathing hard, staring at Sascha like he can’t believe it, but Sascha tugs at his hips, tries to turn him over onto his stomach before he becomes too upset, saying, “Come on,” feeling like he’s spitting the words out in his haste to slide back into Grigor, resisting the urge to squeeze himself.

Grigor takes the cue immediately, and it isn’t a long wait before he’s propped on his knees and elbows, his thighs trembling where they’re spread open, his shoulder blades large and defined as he looks at Sascha over them, his eyebrows still all tied up together. Sascha bites his lip to contain the sound he makes as he pushes back into Grigor, one of his hands pressing firmly between Grigor’s shoulders so that they fall apart underneath his palm, his head bending to touch the rumpled saturated sheets, moaning at the sensation.

Sascha holds Grigor’s hip with his free hand as he thrusts into him over and over, fierce and unforgiving, their skin slapping together once more, Grigor’s breathing seeming twice as disjointed, twice as loud, him feeling just as tight and hot.

It’s hardly any time at all before Grigor’s noises keep catching in his throat, and he’s gasping Sascha’s name like he’s begging, saying, “Please, I’m so —,” his words splitting off like he can’t get enough breath to finish them.

It makes Sascha fuck him relentlessly, feeling Grigor’s skin under his hand tremendously warm and sweaty, using his strong back as leverage, watching the stretch of his shoulders against the mattress, watching Grigor pulling at his own hair, his mouth moving against the skin of his forearm, his eyelashes fluttering, his hips pushing back eagerly still to meet Sascha.

Sascha can’t breathe either — his chest gridlocked so tight with heat, with the feeling of Grigor around his cock, his spine burning up bright and hot, and it gets worse when Grigor reaches between his legs to stroke himself and his mouth opens soundlessly at the contact, his eyes rolling up in his head. He makes a noise like a sob, his arm flexing, moving fast and quick, his bicep bulging, and then he cums, groaning loudly, rubbing his forehead in the sheets, his other hand fisted in his hair, his knuckles white.

He’s too tight, and Sascha thrusts helplessly into him, Grigor grunting in response, before Sascha presses his hand down harder between Grigor’s shoulders, hearing him moan weakly, feeling him give, and Sascha cums too, his other hand clenching at Grigor’s ribs and waist, rolling his hips into him, his eyes watering, his necklaces hanging above Grigor’s back, his hair falling around his face, unable to do anything except for make a loud breathless noise, shuddering through it.

*

Grigor’s collapsed onto the bed on his back right where Sascha had left him by the time he’d tossed the condom in the bin, his legs shaking, having had to lean up against the sink counter for support just to roll it off, and returned to the bedroom. Sascha flops down next to him in a huff, his throat sore and dry.

He rests his palms on his own chest, tapping his fingers lazily, and turns his head to look at Grigor, who's got his eyes closed, his head pillowed in his arms crossed behind his head, his chest still blotched and red, still expanding quickly. The sun’s splattering over his relaxed feet and legs, reaching all the way to his thighs, and Sascha looks away, looks up at the high ceiling arched above them instead. He slides his hands down his stomach and then drops them onto the sheets, his pulse still beating wildly, the recall of Grigor around him, the noise he made when he came too fresh, making it difficult to breathe again. Grigor flings his forearm over his eyes and says, “It’s still on.”

Sascha makes a raspy, unimpressed noise from next to him, so Grigor says, “Sascha.” And then, “You have to do it.”

Sascha makes another noise, though it sounds more like an exertion as the sheets rustle before Grigor feels the weight of Sascha against his chest, his head tucked into Grigor’s shoulder and throat, his nose right underneath Grigor’s jaw and chin, his legs splayed over Grigor’s, his arm winding around his waist. “It’ll run out eventually, Grish, won’t it,” he says into Grigor’s neck.

Grigor lets the arm he had over his eyes drop down to curl around Sascha’s shoulders, rubbing soothingly with an open palm along Sascha’s arm and back. He thinks there’s probably a great view of Sascha’s muscular back and ass and legs that’re facing the camera being recorded now.

“Suppose so,” he says, unable to find a reason to get up, exhaustion heavy and taunting behind his eyelids, Sascha warm and solid against him.

Sascha’s hand comes up to cover his mouth, and he says, his words slurring, sounding sleepy and out of focus, “Then be quiet, and rub my back, won’t you. Some of us just had a long day at the office, put in a few hard hours of work.”

“Yes,” Grigor says, agreeing, talking into Sascha’s warm, slightly sweaty palm, tasting a bit of his skin and salt, while he lazily kneads his hands into Sascha's back. “ _Very_ hard.”

"Get your hands off me, you're no good at this," Sascha mumbles, not even a minute later.

" _Get your hands off me, you're no good at this_ , title of your sex tape," Grigor says. And then it dawns upon him, "Title of **our** sex tape!"

**Author's Note:**

> Last lines and title inspired by none other than detective Jake Peralta.  
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated :)


End file.
